


An Unsought Vice

by saturnaliea



Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Character Study, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, i actually cut out a cuddling moment because it didn't fit sorry guys, i'll give you a fluffy fic at some point, i'm here in the fandom to offer my ability to make everything... really quite sad, watolock doesn't make itself known as much as i wanted it too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnaliea/pseuds/saturnaliea
Summary: Sherlock has two particularly bad habits. Fighting with complete strangers and fighting with her own emotions. One hurts far more than the other.





	An Unsought Vice

**Author's Note:**

> Brief mention of drug use/addiction (Not sure they'll include it in Miss Sherlock but I am), anxiety and the slightest touch of self-injury. 
> 
> I wrote this is one sitting and didn't proofread, prepare yourself. Also, it’s going to be obvious when you start reading but I haven’t written much dialogue heavy fiction in the past years, much less fanfiction (I haven’t written fanfic in around 5 years). I’m working on it because I love Miss Sherlock so much but enjoy anyway!

It had become more and more regular the longer Wato stuck around. Sherlock would waltz in, head high as ever and posture just as pompous yet her smug expression is tainted. A swollen lip or a vicious black eye would further tilt her lopsided grin. At times, an unseen knock to the ribs kept the grin from reaching her eyes or appearing at all. There was no one there to see the faux grin but if she didn’t smile she will be forced to face the less appealing alternative.

With her coat draped over her arm and shirt sleeves bunched up at her elbows, the deep purple welts were obvious. Not one attempt is made to disguise them, like trophies or proud punishment. What use is it to hide injury from a trained doctor she can’t seem to escape. A doctor who is compassionate and insistent. A doctor who isn’t a doctor. Not really.

Sherlock had escaped Wato’s scrutiny in the beginning, either returning home too late to be discovered or being covert enough to shelter herself in her room and nurse her own wounds. The only way she knows how. 

She was never one to depend on anyone to hold her tight or keep her safe. Even at a young age, after losing her parents, she understood her brother’s deep warmth and tenderness. However, the overwhelming pity that swallowed up his eyes when seeing her created a bitter burn in her throat that she couldn’t quite stomach. She acted out in any possible way, bangs and crashes and wails as she destroyed what she could all while burying her palms deep into her ears to buffer her personal chaos. 

Thoughts become fleeting things when you are throwing and swiping and kicking, a lesson she learned when another apology landed on her already precarious tower of fragility. One final “sorry” had her unsheathing her claws and launching herself at her brother, yelling things she didn’t mean and landing weak attacks on his chest and shoulders. Tears fell like blocks of the tower that had been building up and supporting impossible loads. 

Kento had always understood and held her hands until she curled into herself and hiccupped her own apologies. Her frustration (at herself and the unpredictability of the world) had her digging her nails into her palms, leaving imprinted crescents of crimson for days after.

Sherlock finds herself gazing at her twitching hands outside of 221B and rubbing her thumbs into the palms, knowing that she won’t find the crescents there like she once did. She squeezes her fists hard.

Taking a step forward and digging out her house keys, a deep breath shudders through her body. The chilled autumn air floats back onto her face, blanketing her closed eyes and numbing her perception. She straightens her back and rearranges her hair to make herself more presentable before stepping in the door with a jangle of keys and a click of heels.

“Sherlock?” The gentle voice shocks Sherlock stiff. While she had considered the possibility of Wato still being conscious, the probability had not been high considering the high energy of their case that morning. They had been darting from place to place in search of a specific, completely necessary pair of brown shoelaces and ended up chasing and capturing a serial thief, not a shoelace in sight. Frustrating.

Willing herself to test the limits, she quietly removed her heels and attempted to manoeuvre her way into her room without being caught. Wato would return to her business if Sherlock were lucky. A slightly dishevelled flatmate appeared in front of Sherlock. The concept of luck never did seem to favour her. 

“Oh Sherlock…,” Wato breathed taking in the cruel stain around Sherlock’s eye, blossoming in a tasteless arrangement of green and yellow. Regardless of how Sherlock perceives her, Wato is not so oblivious that she hasn’t noticed each time Sherlock has covered a nasty blemish from one of her late-night brawls. As a general rule, Wato makes it a priority not to insinuate herself into any aspect of Sherlock’s private life but this has become impossible to ignore. As a doctor and even more so as a… Not-Friend.

Wato takes a step forward. Sherlock takes a step back. With a groan, Sherlock gives a dismissive gesture making an effort to tug down her sleeves and turns to avoid further inspection from Wato’s soft, concerned gaze. Her throat tastes sour.

“Hold on!” 

Sherlock felt a finger hook in one of the belt loops at her lower back. She whips around feeling and looking murderous before seeing the sheepish appearance in Wato’s face and stance. She feels her persona drop and doesn’t know whether to blame the fatigue or the impossible woman before her.

Wato holds her hands up in surrender and Sherlock lets out a sigh and slouches ever so slightly, feeling deflated.

“I assure you that this is nothing that I can’t handle myself,” She tried to steady her restless hands as she rocked back on her heels in the hallway.

“You could… You should let me have a look. It would be… logical to have someone with a medical background examine you, right?” She was grasping at straws by this point but she wasn’t going to let Sherlock slip away in pain without putting up a fight.

“I have above average medical knowledge.”

“With corpses,” Wato grimaces.

“The differences are not as extreme as you might think. In fact…,” Sherlock trailed off when she noticed the dull reception she was receiving from Wato, “Fine!” She pushed past Wato into the living area and dropped onto the couch with a childishly exaggerated sigh and called from the other room, “The doctor may see me now.”

It truly was a pitiful sight to behold when Wato entered the room. Sherlock had raked her hair back and her head was flung back on the back of the couch. She was presenting her still covered arms and despite the petulant manner of her actions she meekly avoided any contact by quickly shutting her eyes as Wato approached with the first aid kit. Sherlock shifted on the cushions, unprompted, to create more room.

With all the elegance of a wasp in a beehive, Wato struggled internally, as though there was some sort of physical barrier separating the two women. She fidgeted and laid out the necessary items from the box for much longer than required. She moved her hand as if to touch but pulled back again with a defeated look. Sherlock cracked open an eye.

“I know you were trained as a doctor but surely you can’t provide medical attention without the use of your hands,” Sherlock said teasingly and dragged herself into an upright position, face suddenly much closer to Wato’s.

Wato let out a few weak splutters, a light pink dusting her features and Sherlock mentally reprimanded herself for almost smiling. Gathering her bearings impressively fast and putting on a mask of professionalism, Wato set to work on pulling Sherlock’s sleeves up her arms gently. Sherlock couldn’t help but find herself gazing at Wato as she so intently inspected the wounds enveloping both arms. Splashes of blues and purples with smudges of carmine balancing out the canvas her skin has become. Wato traced the contusions curiously before her fingers stopped their journey by the crease of Sherlock’s elbow, letting out a badly disguised inhale. It was sharp and cutting and Sherlock almost flinched. Her eyes flickered to where Wato was looking and she was reminded of why she never makes decisions after any type of confrontation. 

Seeing the scar tissue, the collapsed veins and knowing _she_ had seen them felt like every needle that’s ever pierced her skin returning to pierce her heart, only this time it offers no boost. Sherlock had become desperate to reach faster and faster conclusions, needing these boosts to improve her deductive skills, or so she had convinced herself. It had taken an emphatic and heart-crushing intervention from Kento to finally kick Sherlock into gear and remind her of her brilliance without any type of assistance. The disgust that crushed each of her organs as Wato pulled away felt like the withdrawal all over again. 

Wato felt no disgust, only the loaded feeling that she had encroached upon something that Sherlock had not wished to share. With an apology on her tongue, she looked up at Sherlock. Taking in the distant look, she closed her jaw with a click and began to disinfect the open cuts riddling Sherlock’s skin. It wasn’t the time to discuss the hidden pasts both women hid behind breezy demeanours and they both understood that. Sherlock felt the need to rub her arms and Wato felt an all too familiar twinge in her upper back. They danced around each other in a clumsy performance, avoiding what neither wanted to discuss for now. Wato expertly finished sanitising and bandaging where necessary before allowing Sherlock to pull down her sleeves, buttoning them with nervous fingers.

The action gave Wato time to inch closer to Sherlock’s face, armed with an ice pack and disinfecting wipes. Wato calmly took Sherlock’s wrist and had her hold the ice pack to the heavy bruise swelling and impairing her left eye. Working around Sherlock’s hand, she dabbed at the lower lip that had finally stopped gushing. She washed the red away and the lip was left looking relatively unscathed. Wato studied it for a moment too long before clearing her throat, rubbing the nape of her neck and turning back to her supplies. When her gaze returned she was observing Sherlock to see if she could discover any other areas that required treatment. 

The top two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt were undone, framing the splotches of dark colour littering her collarbones and neck.

“Is it okay if-,” Wato began but Sherlock gave a stiff nod, still avoiding eye contact, and Wato set to work.

Sherlock winced, not from the pain of Wato brushing lightly across a loaded punch shadowing her collarbone, but rather from the closeness, the intimacy she was allowing. Wato’s hands pulling back the collar of her blouse and oh so delicately gazing with a conflicted look of disdain and acquiescence. Sherlock holds back a shiver as Wato dabs and breathes over the broken skin. The tearing and bleeding remind Sherlock of a rift in the earth as a flood of violent red seeps through all the cracks, suffocating and remorseless. A panicked breath escapes her and she closes her eyes turning away before she’s sucked into the damage.

“Uh, this should all heal in no time,” Wato reaches up, placing her hand on Sherlock’s and moving the ice pack away. “And this is already looking a lot better, as long as you don’t provoke anyone else for a week or so.”

“I don’t provoke anyone,” Sherlock complained with a concealed pout that Wato almost didn’t catch.

“Yes, you do.”

The night faded into the same static ambience that had settled between them as Wato showcased her medical finesse and Sherlock pretended to only be humouring her. Only the periodic hums of contemplation from Wato and the chirp of whatever species of insect had settled outside were heard in their home. That’s what everything had become recently. Theirs. 

Sherlock had never considered being a part of a group or a duo. She always considered solitude to be the best policy, no one to disturb or throw off her thoughts. Over time she has discovered that Wato is excellent to bounce ideas off and can even develop questions that Sherlock had not considered. She had never called Wato’s medical expertise into question but now Wato has proved herself even more invaluable to their continued existence in 221B. In fact, Sherlock could make a list of each time Wato has proved exceptionally helpful in various ways. Such a list would only work to solidify how wrong Sherlock had been about her. And oh, how she detested being wrong. She pondered this as she and Wato settled back on the couch, falling back into solitude together.

Sherlock followed Wato's actions and relaxed closer to her and she couldn’t imagine how it had been living alone before this. It was like having a new addiction, a new vice. Only this time, she hoped, it wouldn’t be her destruction.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to let me know if you enjoyed it and want more, I'm open to suggestions! I can actually write fluffier things... Probably. 
> 
> I debated between doing a study of Wato or Sherlock's secret angsty pasts but since Sherlock's is more obscure so I took the fun upon myself and probably (read: definitely) made it far too angsty.


End file.
